Despite the kingdom's woes, preparations for the winter solstice feast begin around the city. Ribbons of silver and blue adorn market stalls, and the aroma of spiced wine fills the air. I watch from my cottage window as servants erect a giant crystalline tree in the center courtyard—tradition upheld even as magical shadows gather at our boundaries.
A sudden knock interrupts my morning tea. I answer the door to see a royal messenger, his visage pinched with obvious disdain at delivering to the gardener's quarters.
"By command of Crown Prince Thorne," he says stiffly, "you are to attend tonight's opening festivities as his official gardening advisor."
I accept the sealed parchment, my gut knotting. After our magical link yesterday and the secret encounter with Balthren—who'd witnessed our display with knowing eyes but uneasy silence—Thorne has avoided me altogether.
Now he summons me to court? Among nobility who consider me as little more than a servant?
As the messenger leaves, I break the royal seal and unfold the note inside. Beyond the formal invitation, a personal message is written in exquisite handwriting: Wear this. Trust no one. Watch Revira.
Beneath the note lies a bundle wrapped in silver fabric. Inside, I see a gown the color of spring leaves with silver embroidery resembling frost patterns around its edges—winter and spring entwined in fabric.
I trace the beautiful embroidery, wondering what game Thorne plays. Is this a test? A trap? Or something more deadly entirely—an alliance?
The palace ballroom glitters with enchanting ice sculptures and hundreds of floating frost-lights. Nobles wrapped in jewels and luxurious furs gather in tight circles, their laughter too loud, their smiles too bright—as though feigning gaiety can keep the kingdom's ills at bay.
I stand awkwardly at the periphery, cradling a goblet of untouched spiced wine. The green gown fits well, bringing both admiring eyes and doubtful remarks. "The gardener witch," they call me when they think I can't hear.
"You look uncomfortable," comes a harsh voice near me.
I turn to find Elm, the head groundskeeper, looking equally out of place in formal clothing.
"What are we doing here?" I whisper. "We should be in the gardens. The western wards weakened again this morning."
"Politics," Elm mutters. "The prince needs allies. The council grows restless."
A trumpet blast interrupts us. The huge doors swing open as Crown Prince Thorne enters, magnificent in dark blue accented with silver that matches the frost design on my gown—a connection impossible to miss.
The gathering collapses into quiet whispers as he moves directly toward me, bypassing the aristocrats who step forward hoping for his attention.
"My gardener," he adds loudly enough for adjacent courtiers to hear. "Walk with me."
I take his offered arm, feeling the coolness flowing from his flesh even through the layers of fabric. His expression remains stoic, but his fingers press aggressively against mine.
"Smile," he murmurs through barely moving lips. "Pretend I'm explaining garden matters."
I press my lips into a curve. "Is this why you've avoided me since yesterday? To plan this... performance?"
"I've been securing allies on the council," he says quietly. "Revira moves against us faster than predicted. She thinks my winter magic has grown unstable, polluting the gardens."
We round the ballroom while he speaks, and I observe how the nobility monitor our movement with calculating eyes.
"There," Thorne motions discreetly toward a nook where Lady Revira holds court amid a dozen supporters. "She's been spreading rumors that you're under my magical influence, a puppet I'm using to hide the damage my powers cause."
"That's absurd," I hiss. "Anyone with magical sense can feel the gardens responding to our combined—"
"Most nobles have no magical sense," he interrupts. "They only know the gardens continue to fail despite your arrival, and winter grows harsher by the day."
Across the room, King Aldric sits unmoving on his throne, attendants carefully holding him upright. Though officially present, his blank eyes reflect the truth of his state.
"Why bring me here? I'm merely giving her targets to aim for."
Thorne's silver eyes flick down to meet mine. "Because we need to shift the narrative. The judge must see us working together, must observe what happens when winter and spring align."
"And how exactly do we—"
"Dance with me," he adds unexpectedly as the orchestra begins a new melody.
"What? I don't know court dances! I'm a gardener, not a—"
"Trust me," he adds, the words evidently tough for him. "Please."
Before I can resist further, he leads me to the center of the ballroom. Other dancers clear the floor, creating a circle of viewers. Panic rises in my throat.
"I'll guide you," Thorne murmurs. "Feel the rhythm like you feel the gardens."
His hand settles at my waist, and a familiar spark ignites where we touch—not just physical awareness but mystical resonance. The music rises, and suddenly we're moving together.
I follow his direction, letting my body respond intuitively. One turn, then another. With each stride, the connection between us increases, and I notice something incredible happening—frost patterns spread across the dance floor beneath our feet, while tiny green shoots rise up in our wake.
Gasps sweep through the watching crowd. The occurrence is subtle—not enough to feel dangerous, just enough to be unmistakably magical. Where winter and spring meet, neither dominant but wonderfully balanced.
"They're watching," Thorne murmurs. "Every person who matters in this kingdom is seeing what we can do together."
"Was this your plan all along?" I ask, breathless from both the dance and the magic flowing between us.
"Hope rarely follows plans," he says cryptically, his eyes softer than I've ever seen them.
For a moment, I forget we're performing for the court. The music, the magic, the man before me—everything else goes away. In his eyes, I see not the cold, calculating prince but someone fighting passionately for his realm, someone who might be fighting for me too.
The magic breaks when the song ends. Applause erupts—some real, others blatantly contrived. As Thorne releases me, I glimpse Lady Revira's outraged scowl across the room.
She strides toward us with deliberate grace, courtiers parting before her like water. Something predatory gleams in her gaze.
"Cousin," she calls sweetly, too sweetly. "Won't you introduce me properly to your... gardener?"